Tagged: memories

I think I dreamt of you once

Contact made;
Hold me in those eyes,
Don’t drop me now.
Suspend me, pull me in
Closer,
Closer,
Closing slowly until…
Realisation.
Pull away, avoid contact;
I’m sorry – we’re both sorry.
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not like this.
No page from your imaginary script,
No cue from the director,
No lights,
No camera,
No action,
Just reaction,
Just realisation:
This is wrong.
So why do I find myself repeating that tired cliche?
Why do I see this same scene
Replayed before me every time I close my eyes?
If this was so wrong,
Why have I carried it with me for years?
Why does the memory still raise a smile?
And why am I unable to imagine
Anyone in your place?

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Schwarzchild Scream

Late night screams fall on deaf ears;
Either they just ain’t listening
Or they were never really here
To listen anyway,
Just to watch, observe, account
And fade back to grey
As night descends.
But these non-committal
Ghosts of my past still
Haunt the places I fear to go:
Places drenched in long ago
Events, the stain of choices rendered
With no thought to consequence
And no avenue for retreat.
The light leached from my eyes,
The life drained from my heart,
I can’t even summon up the
Energy to whimper anymore.
Stale sweat and crusted tears
A patina across the surface
Of this broken colossus,
Built tall by people long forgotten
And left to weather
And rot
And decay
Once their empire collapsed;
A hint of their once great work
Long since superseded
By the trivial antics of those who came after.
And so my mind draws back from those dark places
And I think to myself:
Am I the one screaming?
Or am I just the amplifier?

Tortured till dawn

I had a dream last night which left an impression. Details are, as always, sketchy, but here are the fragments that I remember:

I was in a city I had never been to, and I have recollections of needing to visit a grand temple for some sort of service. Not because I was a follower of their religion, but because I wanted to see the temple in its full glory.

I was in a room –  a kitchen, maybe? It seemed to be part of a dormitory or hostel of some sort. I was sewing messages onto fabric, but doing so at an extremely rapid pace. It seemed as though I was leaving a message for someone. I recall being asked a question about my friends’ religions, and I was making a number of bracelets for each of the different religions – Christian, Sikh, Hindu, Agnostic, Discordian… The bracelet for the discordians initially had the form of an actual bracelet that I once made for somebody, but it was left changed at the end.

The person with whom I was communicating in this strange way was not actually there – I knew who she was, but we had not met face to face. She responded to my messages with one of her own, a beautiful painting of a moon in a red sky. I responded by painting my own picture (which I cannot remember the details of), and then when I looked at the moon I saw a message hand written underneath it. I cannot remember the exact words, but it was to the effect of: “I am confident and self-sure to the point where people consider me vain and arrogant, you will not like me”.

I then found a door into a small room which was filled with paintings, beautiful paintings of people and places, all framed, hung and forgotten. As I looked at all of them I grew incredibly sad and began to weep. I knew I was being foolish, expressing such feeling for paintings, but I could not hold back the tears as I thought of these Incredible pictures – people, places, memories – seen and enjoyed by nobody except the artist.

Then she appeared, and held me and told me it was OK. I laughed and apologised for my ridiculous tears, at which point she kissed me.

I don’t remember what happened next, but I recall being in a car with the girl and two of her friends. We were laughing about ridiculous game-bugs that people had logged onto testing databases (The only one I remember was “The computer is on fire”, which I guess is funny because it’s not a software issue, it’s a hardware issue). I don’t know where we were headed, but looking at my watch, I could see I was late for the temple service…

That’s all I remember. When I woke up, I discovered the tears had been real. The temple I have never seen before. The paintings I don’t recall seeing before. But I know her face.

You may want to live like a chicken, my friend, but I want to live like a man.

And another day seems to have just evaporated. In truth, I had no plans for the day. I feel as if I’m trapped in a state of Limbo. I cannot move things to the tip as my car is still out of action. Supposedly it was supposed to be fixed tonight, but that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen now, and so it remains sat on my drive.

And yet there are things I could be doing which do not necessitate the use of a car. I have a plethora of books to read. I have countless models which need painting. I have rooms full of stuff to sort out. I can do all of this without my car. So why have I sat here drinking coffee and playing guitar? Why have I done nothing constructive all day? In short, where the hell has my time actually gone?

It’s one thing to spend a day doing nothing with friends. It’s another thing entirely to spend a day doing nothing with noone. It shouldn’t really bother me; after all, it’s been a pretty relaxing day. But those nagging voices in my head are getting chatty again.

I think for the most part the thing that has been bothering me has been the rediscovery of an old song. I had genuinely forgotten about its existence, but when I listened to it, it triggered a wave of memories. Memories of old times, of friends once known, of lives once lived, now all gone. I was unable to focus on the happy memories as I am sat here in a house I hate, apparently wasting my time. But that song is still there, still playing, still reminding me.

I did manage to figure out how to play it on my guitar though, so I suppose today has not been a total wash out.

By Goddess, I want my damn car fixed.